


At the Crossroads

by LadyMerlin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, M/M, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 01:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8081728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: Life is idyllic and wondrous and perfect, but he’s Sherlock Holmes, the Great Detective, and he sees the cracks in the façade, even though he doesn’t know what they mean.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written a long time ago, in or around January 2014. It's not a happy fic. I don't know why I didn't publish it then, maybe I'd planned to add to it, but I don't think that's going to happen. So. Here it is, I guess *jazz hands*
> 
> In any case, it's canon compliant, and angsty. There's no happy ending.

John is taking him jumper shopping. It’s Christmas and apparently jumper shopping is traditional. They never had the chance before, but this year, John isn’t letting him out of sight. It’s understandable. Sherlock’s hardly willing to let John out of sight either. There have been too many mornings on which he woke up without John by his side, and he’s not willing to put up with that nonsense any more than is necessary.

His return to Baker Street had been. Well. It had been everything he’d hoped for, and more. Granted, John had been a little violent in his shock, and fists had flown, but John had forgiven him, once Sherlock had told him the reason why he’d done… what he’d done.

And maybe John had seen that Sherlock had grieved just as much as himself. They’d both sacrificed a great deal, and it had been enough. They were done with sacrifices.

And even though Sherlock complained like an over-grown child about having to go shopping in December, they are going jumper shopping, and Sherlock’s not setting anything on fire, which is as close to acquiescence as he can get. John knows this.

They go out and Sherlock tries on everything John throws at him and only comments on the stuff he likes, which, to be fair, is a lot nicer than the alternative.

In the Christmas crowd, the hustle and bustle of Londoners panicking about last minute presents, someone makes an assumption and John doesn’t correct them, and it’s all Sherlock can do, it’s _everything_ , to not lean over the smaller man and kiss him, right there.

From the way John looks at him, Sherlock thinks he knows. They’re smiling and Sherlock doesn’t think he’s been this happy in a long time.

“Jesus Christ,” John says, “Mycroft.”

It’s a non-sequitur, but it’s probably because they’ve both forgotten to get something for Mycroft. Sherlock had wanted to get a gag gift, but John was insisting on something nice. Sherlock sighs, and they go to look for something sufficiently fancy for the man who own everything.

-

John nags him into dinner with Harry. Sherlock doesn’t like Harry. The feeling is mutual, he is sure. She’s far sharper than her brother, but in an unpleasant way. John is very intelligent, but he is kind and forgiving and genuinely believes that people are good.

Harriet Watson is far too clever to believe that. She is jaded and her tongue is like a razor blade. She’s a lot like Sherlock, really, because both of them know with the conviction of experience that people are basically shits, and that no one really deserved the benefit of the doubt. It’s probably why they don’t get along too well.

But they both love John Watson, and for that, he agrees. He lets her insults roll off him, and eventually she gets bored of poking at someone who won’t respond, and dinner goes well. Surprisingly so.

Sherlock got them reservations at Angelo’s and John had been a little reluctant, but Sherlock had seen right through that. “It’ll always be ours, love.”

It had been enough to reassure John, and Angelo was a great comic relief when things got tense. That had been one case Sherlock absolutely didn’t regret taking.

At the end of the evening, everyone’s well fed and watered, and not a drop of alcohol has been consumed. Harry’s giggly and it’s making John giggly too, and Sherlock’s happy enough to be grinning at the two of them, because it’s a perfect evening. The only way it would have been better would be if he and John had been alone, but they have the rest of their lives for that.

Standing outside the restaurant, a woman with short blonde hair bumps into Sherlock and he stumbles a little. John catches him and glares at the woman as she passes, unconcerned.

“Come home with me, John, please?” Harry asks, and it’s confusing, like Sherlock’s missed a step somewhere in between. He grabs onto the sleeve of John’s jumper and shakes his head.

John smiles at him, innocent and open, and kisses his cheek. “I can’t, Harry. I’m staying with Sherlock.” Harry sighs and touches John’s shoulder, and he shrugs it off, which is also weird. But Harry doesn’t look offended, and they go home.

-

They’re lazing around in Baker Street, one day, when Mrs. Hudson comes to visit them. She looks a little concerned, but mostly happy. She’s smiling and stroking her skirt free of imaginary creases, and Sherlock opens his mouth to deduce, but John covers it before he can get a word out.

Mrs. Hudson giggles. “Come in,” John invites her, and heaves Sherlock off, so he can go into the kitchen to make tea. Sherlock looks at him with his most baleful glare and is only partially appeased when John drops a kiss in his hair. He takes up all of the space on the sofa, so John won’t have anywhere to sit when he gets back.

Mrs. Hudson accepts the cup with quiet thanks and waits for the minor scuffle before Sherlock plants his head in John’s lap again, and refuses to move. John sighs and tangles his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, and he has _never_ been happier than he is, at that moment.

“What’s going on Mrs. Hudson, is everything alright?”

She smiles when John pre-emptively covers Sherlock’s mouth. “Everything’s lovely, dear. I just have a little bit of news I wanted to share with you. You know my daughter, Meredith? Sherlock’s met her, years and years ago in Florida, back when I was with Mr. Hudson of course. She’s coming over to live in London, permanently.”

John grins, Sherlock can tell without looking. “That’s good news, Mrs. Hudson!”

She smiles again, crows’ feet wrinkling, and creases folding up in the corners of her lips. “I’ve decided to give 221 Baker Street to her, and her husband and her daughters.”

John’s still smiling and it’s like Sherlock’s watching it all happen, in slow motion. “That’s wonderful! Will she still keep lodgers, or should we start looking for a new place?”

“Oh, I think she will! You two don’t need to worry about a thing! She loves you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock doesn’t respond, because something is wrong. Something is wrong with this picture. “You can’t.”

“Oh, Sherlock, I’m going to live with my sister now. We’re both getting on and it’ll be nice to have someone checking in on us every now and then. London’s far too busy for me.”

“You can’t leave,” he says, and it’s like he can’t breathe. It’s the end of an era.

“Oh, pet, don’t you worry about a thing, you’ll be fine before you know it!” she pats his leg twice, and presses a kiss into his hand and leaves, and it feels like hours before he can function again. John is nowhere to be found.

-

He wakes up to the sound of a gun shot, but it’s not, it’s just Lestrade’s car downstairs, an exhaust backfiring. His heart beat slows down, but his brain quickens, listening to Lestrade pound up the stairs, two at a time.

“Sherlock, mate, we need you. You can’t leave!”

He’s confused. He’s not going anywhere. He’s still here. Where he’s always been. He says so.

Lestrade doesn’t look like it means anything to him; like he’s talking to an image of Sherlock, but not the Sherlock who’s responding to him.

John looks confused, but it’s directed at him, instead of Lestrade. Unexpected. “But we are leaving, remember? We’re going to retire in the countryside, and keep bees, right?”

Sherlock doesn’t remember this. He has no recollection. He has never told John what he wanted to do. He’s never even dreamt that John would want to be with him for that long. It’s too soon. It’s not right.

“I can’t leave London!” he exclaims, because it’s true. He can’t leave London, _again_.

John sighs. “Well, I’ll just have to find someone else to keep bees with.” He turns, and goes to his bedroom, and Lestrade is gone too, and nothing makes any _sense_ anymore.

-

There’s a dream of a dream of a blonde woman who’s a thief (she steals hearts) and Sherlock’s supposed to stop her but she stops him instead and he wakes up from his dream and he doesn’t understand.

-

He doesn’t _understand_.

-

He’s looking back at the Christmas he spent with John, and it’s a realisation like lightning. The only thing he can remember is John. He can’t remember when they went. He can’t remember where they went. He doesn’t know what they bought. Doesn’t even remember what the weather was like, or what John was wearing. The background, the details, everything _everything_ except John’s face; all a blur.

John hates jumpers. He only wears them because his sister buys them for him, and they keep him warm.

-

Question: Why had they gone jumper shopping?

-

Answer: They hadn’t.

-

They’re in Brixton, Lauriston Gardens, and it’s unlike the last time. Completely different. It’s light and airy, and there is no stench of death in the air.

Sherlock is sitting on the stairs and waiting. He’s not sure why he’s waiting, or what for. He just is. The light coming through the windows is glaringly bright and he wants to shield his face, but he can’t.

He turns his head an oddly enough, the wall paper is that from 221B, and it’s strange. Very strange. But a lot of things have been strange recently, and he’s given up wondering.

If nothing else, that’s the biggest sign that something is wrong. He hasn’t stopped wondering his whole life. Not even when it got him into trouble, not even when he was drugged up to the gills, beaten and abused, his mind never stopped.

But it was slowing down now, here, in this place where once, everything had begun.

The wall paper is crumbling beneath his fingers.

It’s wrong.

There’s a blonde woman outside, and he can’t see her but he knows she’s there, and she’s watching him. She’s waiting for him.

John’s with her. He’s by her side. And it’s _wrong_.

His mind is making deductions as fast as it can, but it’s like a battery operated machine on its last leg, a sputtering, failing engine. Something is _wrong_. He hasn’t been to this place in years, but he’s here now, and it’s not real.

None of it is real.

Realisation is the only thing, it’s the only solid thing in the world. It’s like his heart’s been kickstarted by a mule, with a jolt, and the motor is running again, blockage cleared, airways clean, and _fuck_.

He sits up with a gasp, in the real world for the first time in a while.

“Mary.”

**Author's Note:**

> Why do I.  
> Sorry.


End file.
